


The Rise and Fall of Sherlock Holmes and the Spiders from Mars

by Vash137



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (Album)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vash137/pseuds/Vash137
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NOT A REAL PERSON FIC!  I started this in response to a prompt on the Sherlock Kink Meme like 3-4 years ago for a crossover between Sherlock and Ziggy Stardust. The prompt was "Sherlock is Ziggy Stardust." Ziggy Stardust is one of my favorite albums by one of my absolute favorite artists, so I wanted to do the prompt justice. Unfortunately, life got in the way and never finished the long-fic. Waking up this morning to find out that David Bowie had passed on has had me off and on in tears. I am posting the three chapters I've written so far in honor of one of our greatest artists. Though I haven't finished this fic, and only the first chapter has been Brit-picket/BETAed (thank you Misanthropyray), I do have the whole story arc outlined in my mind and I hope you enjoy what's been written so far. </p><p>RIP David Bowie. Without you, the soundtrack of our lives (my life) would be much, much less. </p><p>As a note, I didn't follow the prompt exactly, as you'll find out in Chapter 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Years

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to have to post warnings chapter by chapter, but I don't expect this to get particularly triggery. So far it is not. This fic will have many, MANY pairings, but it is centered around Sherlock/John insofar as pairings go.

The day the news came over that the Earth had five years left, Gregory Lestrade was pushing through Market Place towards Oxford Circus Tube station. It was cold with a rain that came in misty and sideways. He'd been talking on the phone with his brother younger brother James about some crackpot theory about strange patterns in the Northern Lights when James stopped speaking, mid sentence.

Lestrade said, “Are you there?”

“Check the news.” James's voice had a hitch to it that Lestrade hadn't heard since he was eleven and James had broken his arm falling out of a tree.

“James?”

“It's the end. I can't-- just check the news.”

Across the street, through the window of the electronics shop televisions flickered grainy pictures of the incoming rock. Pointless statements in ticker-tape. “One hundred forty-three miles in diametre.” “Prime Minister unavailable for comment at this time.” The reporter wiped tears from his cheeks, and Lestrade felt the pain of truth in his eyes. Groceries fell from Lestrade's limp hand, splashing a dirty puddle against the hem of his trousers. His oranges rolled off ahead.

To his left, a mother cried, clutching her baby to her chest.

When the shock wears away, Lestrade thought, there will be rioting. Given five years, humans would destroy themselves long before the world ended. Lestrade's mobile vibrated. He sat on the kerb and pulled it from his pocket.

“lestrade come to my flat if convenent,” SH

A lanky teen with frosted hair picked up one of Lestrade's oranges and hurled it at the window of televisions. It hit, the glass cracked, and the orange, deformed and oozing, slid to the ground.

“if inconevenien,t come anyway” -SH

Was Sherlock high again? He had to be. Lestrade flipped through his contacts and dialed Sherlock's number. After five rings, it went to voicemail. “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. If you are planning to leave a message, you clearly did not read the instructions on the website correctly.”

At the beep, Lestrade said, “In case you hadn't noticed Sherlock, we're bloody done for. And I hate texting, not that you give a shit. If you want a house call, let me know when you've solved this end of the world thing. Or stop by the station. We'll be up to our eyeballs in bodies soon enough. Like bloody Christmas, right? It's Lestrade, in case there's anyone else in the world besides your brother who actually calls you.”

Lestrade had barely closed the phone when it vibrated again.

“ive solved it. geniusafterall” --SH

“Bollocks,” Lestrade muttered and stood. An orange whizzed past his ear.

Inside the electronics shop, an old man was beating at one of the televisions with an iron. Lestrade closed his umbrella and stabbed it through the soggy remains of his grocery bag.

“new flat 221bbaker st” --SH

God, what had Sherlock taken? What did it matter? Five years. Lestrade needed to go back to the station. He needed to hug his ex-wife. He had better things to do than spend his last days at the beck and text of a relapsing addict genius who had proclaimed just last week he didn't even know the earth went 'round the sun and didn't care, and who now in a feat of profound arrogance promised to save them all.

With the world ending, he wouldn't even need Sherlock anymore.

“plse.” --SH

Had Sherlock just said please? Lestrade tapped reply on his mobile. “What did you take?”

“irelevnt.” --SH

Lestrade was going. Face lifted to the heavens, Lestrade closed his eyes and laughed at the rain.

***

The day the announcement came that the world had five years left, John Watson was seated at the desk of his budget hotel, teeth clamped around the barrel of his not-quite service gun. Rain beat against the outside window. John had spent three weeks working through a series of black market transactions until he found someone in possession of the right piece. The weight of it was wrong, good enough for its purpose but still wrong. As the gentle chatter of the television became more insistent, more urgent, John toyed with the trigger, his left hand rock steady in the way that only came these days when he toyed with death.

“Five years,” the woman on the television said. She was crying so much her face was wet, and John knew she wasn’t lying.

John pulled the gun from his mouth and faced the television, impassive. When the report ended, he placed the gun on his desk. Casualties would soon be flooding the hospitals. Ending things now would be selfish. And unnecessary.

Outside a man cried to Jesus.

John pulled his duffel from the top shelf of the closet, unrolled it and packed up the necessities of his life: two sets of clothing, toiletries, a first aid kit, a three day supply of energy bars and his not-quite right gun. He was zipping the bag shut when his mobile rang. He glanced at the incoming number before flipping it open and waiting for his sister to speak.

“John?” Harry said, her voice slurred. “The world's ending, did you hear? I just... I'm so far out.”

“Don't do this.”

“Come over and have a drink with me.”

“You know I can't see you...like this...”

“My liver will surely outlast the Earth. And if it doesn't...” Harry blew a careless raspberry.

“We don't know for sure. I mean, they might do something like they did in that film we watched the night before I was deployed. You know, with that American actor who does all the action movies.”

Harry laughed, hard and long and punctuated with hiccups. “I love you, John.”

John took a breath, his throat tight and large. “Ditto.”

“I'm going to have another fucking drink.”

“I'll be at the Royal London, A&E if you need me.”

“They gave you a job?”

“They will.”

“Only you'd be applying for the most futile job on the planet now.”

“I think that honor still goes to policing.”

The clink of glass on glass, and Harry laughed. “L'Chaim!” she said. “Don't do anything stupid. Well, stupider.”

The mobile beeped and went silent.

John pulled on his beige jumper, a gift from Harry, slung his field bag over his shoulder and grabbed the cane before shutting and locking the door behind him. One of his neighbors ran naked down the hall, her hips and breasts quivvering. Her brows were straight, her face round, her eyes bright and wide, her pubic hair was the same blonde as her eyebrows. “You’re my new neighbor. Dr. Watson, isn't it?” she said with a solemn expression, squeezing his cheeks between her palms.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?” Her voice was clipped with a touch of India.

“You're beautiful. Your face, I mean. And the way that you talk. I want—God--” What was he saying? Just because the world was ending wasn't reason enough to make an idiot of himself. “I'm so sorr--”

She kissed him, a chaste pressing of lips and breasts. “My name is Mary,” she said and took a step back. “And I’m a killer. Usually, I keep that to myself, but I figure with all that’s going on, what’s the point.”

“Were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“CIA," Mary said in a flat American accent before she tipped an invisible hat and waved John towards the staircase.

John limped down, imagined wound throbbing to his toes. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. When the work was done, he'd finish himself then.

***

The afternoon of the asteroid annoncement, Molly Hooper was wrist deep in a cadaver. A morgue assistant, short, ginger haired with a smattering of freckles that made him look like a child, ran in, interrupting her mid-description of the enlarged liver.

“Five years.” His tears were falling so hard his face was wet, and Molly realized she didn't know his name.

“What's going on?” Molly asked, removing the liver and placing it on the scale. “Five years for what?”

“Everything.” He leaned back against the wall and slid down. When his butt hit the floor, he wrapped his arms around his knees, his green eyes empty like a mirror. “When the rock hits, it's going to wipe us all away. Nuclear winter times a hundred, that's what they said. What do we do?”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s on every station. TV. Radio. Facebook. Twitter. They keep saying, 'Five years.' The newsman on the TV was crying. And they're rioting at the Houses of Parliament. God, they'll be rioting everywhere.” His grip, fingers youthful and uncalloused, tightened around his calves. “'Five years,' they say, 'that's all we've got.'”

Molly dropped the liver back in the cadaver and began to suture. Soon St. Bart’s would be up to its neck in corpses. Always a secure job, working with the dead. Not her dream, but it was interesting and paid well enough, but that was before she'd known the expiration date on the world was due so soon.

Molly asked, “Five years, is it?”

“And I've only had sex with one woman,” the assistant said with a sob.

Molly couldn't help but laugh. “You realize that's the worst pickup line ever?”

“Wha--” the assistant's eyes grew wide. “You mean, you?”

“I'm not that old.”

“No! That's not what I meant.” He jumped to his feet. “Dr. Hooper, it's just I never thought and if you and me and what about...?” His gaze flitted to the cadaver.

“I doubt Mr. Willoughby will raise any objections,” Molly said, peeling off her gloves and dropping them at the cadaver's feet.

“You really mean it?”

“Why not?” Molly shrugged. “The bloke I've taken a fancy to only pays me any attention when I let him play with bits of the corpses. ”

“That's...”

“I know.”

“Dr. Hooper.” He crossed the room and took her around the waist. His grip was stiff, his lips shaking, eyes desperate and hungry. He pulled free the green cap covering her head. “I've always liked your hair. And you have a really nice body.” He blushed, his gaze focused on her forehead. “You're definitely the prettiest ME in this building.”

“Molly.”

“What?”

Molly brushed her index finger over his lips, shifting her weight so that her thigh pressed tight against his crotch. He was already half erect. “When you come for me,” Molly said, “I won't have you screaming ‘Dr. Hooper’.”

“Ye—yes, Molly.”

She grabbed his collar and pulled him in for a kiss. His mouth tasted of mustard laced with salt. Soon their clothes were a pool on the floor and they lay atop them, a raft on shifting waters. His movements were awkward and sweet and urgent as Molly ghosted over his body, sucking, scratching, and strumming from him deep moans; he thrust into her, “Molly, Jesus, Molly,” the rhythm and depth of it like the double bass at the foot of her bed, a reminder of a dream of another life. His lashes glistened when he came. Her orgasm washed her free.

When she had gathered her clothes and dressed again, he ran awkward fingers over her cheek. “I'm clean, I swear,” he said. “But if you get...if there's a baby somehow, I promise--”

“The world's ending in five years,” Molly said. “Do you really think I'd bring a child into that?”

“No.” He ducked his head and focused sudden attention on the intricacies of tying his shoes. When he was finished, he asked, “So, what now?”

Molly said, “I don't know about you, but I've always wanted to play bass in a band.”

When Molly stepped out the back entrance, it was raining and she smelled of sex.

She still didn't know his name.

***

The day of the public announcement, Mycroft Holmes was perched in an ice-cream parlor drinking milkshakes, cold and long. He'd known about the asteroid for seven hundred twenty-eight days and hoped to carry the secret to all of their graves, but the information had leaked. Americans most likely. Free press had its uses, but it ought not bring about a lack of order. Mycroft appreciated order. He cultivated it. The opposite was chaos and maintaining oneself in chaos was simply too much work.

His brain hurt. A lot.

Halfway through the third milkshake Mycroft spotted Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade slogging through the rain towards the tube. The DI exuded an unconscious authority, forming around him a bubble of stillness in the increasingly agitated crowd. Lestrade was compelling, attractive, and even a bit interesting, which for Mycroft was practically a declaration of love, although the complications of such an entanglement were such that he had never acted on his feelings. He was aware of them, however. Unlike his brother, Mycroft refused to indulge the vice of self-deception. He allowed himself only manageable vices, a tendency towards overindulgence in food, the occasional need for sexual gratification (payment handled discretely in cash), and the disguised affection for a self-declared archenemy.

But things had changed. Though the world had been ending for quite some time, now people knew. It had become real. Of course there were contingency plans in place for just such an occurrence. Soon, the Prime Minister would be briefed on a secret government project in place to divert the asteroid; the outcome of which would only be determined after two years. It was a lie, of course, but a well constructed one that would, for a time, keep the humanity from destroying itself. And provide funds for the underground shelters that would, for a few, prolong the inevitable. The annoncement would be made in the next hour. It was a pretty enough lie that most would choose to believe. Would Lestrade? The man was not a genius, but neither was he a fool.

Soon Lestrade would be out of sight, swallowed by the increasingly malevolent crowd. The prudent thing to do would be to let him go. Mycroft was a great believer in the prudent thing. But the word was ending, so he stood and, ignoring the shouts of the shoppe worker, stepped out onto the street, the glass of his milkshake cold in his palm.

“Detective Inspector!” Mycroft shouted.

Lestrade stopped. In front of him, a woman yanked her toddler from its carraige and threw the screaming little boy to the ground. Lestrade grabbed her from behind and yanked her off the child. She shouted, struggling in Lestrade's grip as Mycroft closed the distance. Then her body went limp and Lestrade lowered her to the ground where she dropped her face onto her knees and cried. Lestrade left her, went to the child and picked him up. The boy wrapped his arms around Lestrade's neck. The boy's nose was running and he had a bleeding scrape on his wrist.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said again, stepping around the woman.

“Mycroft.” Lestrade pulled his mobile from his pocket and flipped it open. “I need to have these two taken to the station. Can't have the kid go home with her, not now, not with as unbalanced as she is, but who's going to take him? I can't even imagine the calls we're getting. It's chaos. Think we'll make it five years?” Lestrade laughed. “Bet half the force has quit. If I ever had dreams of being anything other than a copper maybe I would too.”

“Order will be restored.”

“And you, last time I checked weren't you the friggin' British government? Don't you think you could have seen this coming?'

“It's not the end.”

“You did see it coming. My God.”

“There are contingency plans in place. Whoever leaked this information did not have the full story in hand.” At least not the full story Mycroft had wanted told.

“So it's a hoax then?”

“Not exactly.” Too difficult to pretend this situation was wholly constructed, as the asteroid would become increasingly obvious to anyone with a telescope and the will to search. “But it is being managed. Why don't we use my car to transport the child and his mother to wherever would be most appropriate?”

“You know, I want to believe a man in your position could only be so calm if he had some reason to hope.”

“But you don't?”

“Your brother is the second best actor I've ever met.”

Mycroft wasn't sure whether to be insulted or impressed with the other man's observational ability. “As I said, order will be restored by morning.”

The boy rested his head at the base of Lestrade's neck. “Mummy,” he said. “Want my mummy.”

Lestrade touched his palm to the side of the child's temple. “You should see to your brother, Mycroft” he said. “He's not spell checking his texts. I think he might have fallen off the wagon.”

“Is that where you were going?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me get this sorted and we'll go together.”

***

On the day some idiot decided the world was ending without consulting Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock was cataloging mould specimens. He kept the telly on in the background, nature channel mostly. If they ran something particularly interesting about insects, especially bees, he would sometimes stop what he was doing and watch. Today they were showing some nonsense about irregularities in the Northern Lights which he'd long since tuned out. As his gaze flicked over his slides, his mind drifted towards the three suicides that had recently made the papers. Successful people with no history or indication of depression or suicidal ideation, each found dead through a self-administered poison at places at random through the city. It was murder. Sherlock was certain of that, though the method eluded him.

Interesting.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson was pounding on his door. “I know you're in there. Turn on your telly, will you. Sherlock!” It was two o' clock in the afternoon, and () was on. She was clearly agitated, which was unusual in itself as for all her nattering, Mrs. Hudson had remarkable fortitude.

Sherlock reluctantly lifted his gaze from the microscope and went to open the door.

Mrs. Hudson was still in her dressing gown. Her hair was mussed and her slippers mismatched. She clutched two mugs of tea in white knuckled grip. “Right love,” she said, holding one of the cups out to him. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks wet. “No milk, extra sugar, just as you like.”

Sherlock took a sip of the tea. “What's wrong? You seem to have had a shock.”

“Aren't you watching the telly?”

Sherlock glanced at it. The news was on. “It's just for noise.”

She laughed. Her lips quiverred and the tea shook in her hand. Sherlock hesitated, torn between stepping away and stepping towards her, offering some form of comfort. Emotions. Not his area. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson grabbed him in a tight embrace. Tea spilled across the back of his shirt, hot and wet. Her body was stiff against his chest. She said, “We're all going to die in five years, love.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, better to hear it from someone who cares, isn't it? That's what my Mum always said about bad news,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And what have I done to your nice shirt?” She stepped back, pulling her hand from his, and ran to the kitchen. “Haven't you got a towel in this mess?”

Mrs. Hudson's skin had the pale, sweaty sheen of shock. Sherlock had seen it enough in witnesses. She wasn't joking, or lying, though it was perfectly possible she'd been deceived. Likely even. Though how and why was beyond Sherlock. “Where did you see this report.”

“They're running it on every station.” She fished a crumpled towel from the dining room table and bustled back towards him. “Sit down, love,” she said, pointing towards the sofa. “and lean forward so I can wipe this up. Silk's such a trial to get stains from, isn't it?”

“I'll have it dry cleaned,” Sherlock said, taking Mrs. Hudson's hands. “Now, what on the news has you convinced the world is coming to an end?”

“There's an asteroid, like in the films. And they're rioting at Parliament. There's rioting all over the city. It's a wonder it hasn't reached here yet. You can't imagine the nightmare it's going to be getting to my Bridge club tomorrow. And the food shopping. I should really be doing some food shopping, just in case.”

Sherlock Holmes led Mrs. Hudson to the armchair in front of the telly, sitting her down and then perching on the edge. Mrs. Hudson tapped the towel uselessly at the damp spot on his shirt. They were running the report on every station. It was a mess of emotionality that Sherlock conceded was understandable, considering the circumstances. The circumstances were of course, completely unacceptable.

This was despair. Or shock, the sort that they wrapped a man in orange blankets with some thought that the press of obnoxiously colored fabric somehow helped. The world supposedly had five years left, but it ended here for him. Five years of chaos and despair would yield little by way of interesting crime. His work would suffer. His work would decay. Become nothing. And without the work, Sherlock was nothing. An intellect spinning towards its own destruction.

“Sherlock, love,” Mrs. Hudson took his hand and rubbed her thumb in a circle over the top of it. “Don't worry, I'm sure they'll think of something. Once the shock passes. You wouldn't happen to know anyone in high levels of government, would you?”

“I might.” Mycroft must have known about this. The insufferable prat. Through the walls came faint ring of Mrs. Hudson's landline. Sherlock said, “Your phone is ringing.”

Mrs. Hudson jumped up. “Vera! My sister never can wrap her head around using the mobile. I have to take this.” She placed her tea on top of one of the unopened boxes in front of the television, then picked it up again. “Will you be alright here for a bit by yourself?”

“I'm fine.”

“No you're not. None of us are, really.” Mrs. Hudson started towards the door. “I'll bring you down some biscuits when they're done baking. I'm a stress baker, not your housekeeper mind.”

When she was gone, Sherlock watched the report again. He was scientific by nature. Though he didn't trouble himself too deeply with the errata of physics, he understood that systems tended towards disorder. It was easier to destroy than to create. Statistics allowed for all possibilities. It was nothing remarkable that the world would be destroyed by a random act of chance. He should just accept it and off himself like so many were doing this afternoon.

He considered the best method. Pills. Hot bath and knife in the femoral artery. It would be awkward to have Mrs. Hudson find his body. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and thought. He knew of literally thousands ways to kill a person. The possibilities passed in an ordered line through his consciousness, considered and rejected.

Sherlock Holmes was a genius. It would be idiotic to end his life without at least making some attempt at reasoning out a solution. And there was some piece of data that held a solution in his hard drive, somewhere. He could, for lack of a more precise term, feel it. It often happened like this with cases, with the interesting ones. Some would call it intuition, but intuition was a vague concept and Sherlock refused to define his mental processes using vague concepts.

Sherlock considered calling Mycroft, but he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction. Besides, solution or no, Mycroft had chosen to hide this from Sherlock, instead tossing him tidbits of useless busywork that he was too lazy to take on himself while berating Sherlock about his personal habits. Mycroft could go hang.

Sherlock stood and paced, his fingers twitching as he searched through his memory palace. He'd done his best to streamline his knowledge towards what most benefited his work, but as with any hard drive, things weren't deleted so much as overwritten, leaving bits of irrelevant clutter that invariably slowed the process. Worse in this case because some bit of clutter in this case might have relevance. He needed to think faster.

His tea had gone cold when Sherlock finally gave in to the inevitable. Cocaine. It had been two years since the last time he'd slipped he needle into his vein. A short pain followed by blissful clarity. After his last overdose, Lestrade had vowed to bar Sherlock from all access to the Yard if he slipped again, but that hardly mattered now. Lestrade would certainly forgive Sherlock once he'd saved the world.

Decided, Sherlock locked his door and went to his dresser. Lying on his back, he tapped at the bottom until he found the catch. The hard leather case dropped into his palm. It was black with two steel clasps along the side. He walked back to the sofa, prepared his usual dosage by rote and tying off his left arm, pushed the needle into his vein.

At first, the high was overwhelming. Sherlock filtered through information almost with greater and greater speed until the data became a hum, and the hum music. Lights passed in front of his eyes. He stood, pacing, talking to himself, until it all became too fast and he dropped onto his back between the kitchen and the living room, chill leaching from the floor through his shirt. He closed his eyes.

 

                                                       light

                                                                                               music

                         meet

                                                                 waiting

     message

                                   ...

                                             muSic

                                                                           lighT

     yeArs

                                                                                                         Rock

                         Music

                                                       wAiting

                                                                           baNd

                                                                                               ...

     meSsage

                                                                                                                   Two

               reichenbAch

                                                       noRthern

                                                                                     Meet                                                                                            messAge

                childreN                                               

                                                                           waiting                                      

...

 

...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting......muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting......meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting......muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...meSsageTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...muSicTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetmessAgechildreNwaiting...muSicTwoyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...muSicTworeichenbAchnoRthernMeetyeArschildreNwaiting...muSiclighTyeArsRockMusicwAitingbaNd...muSicTwoyeArsReichenbachMeetingmessAgenortherNlights...

 

                                                                           n

                                                                           o

                                                                           r

                                                                 m       t

                                                                 e        h

               m                 y                            s         e

               u                  e                            s         r

               S        T        A       R        M       A       N

               i         w       r         e        e        g        l

               c        o        s         i         e        e        i

                                             c        t                   g

                                             h                            h

                                             e                            t

                                             n                            s                   waiting...

                                             b

                                             a

                                             c                                     

                                             h                                                                                                            .                  

Sherlock stood. His heart was beating rapidly, too rapidly, his skin hot, too hot, pouring sweat. Where had he put his mobile? Kitchen? Sweat stung his eyes. His hip bumped the kitchen table's edge and the slides fell. Broken glass. Pick it up. Shaking, bleeding, stupid. Mobile? Sofa. Sherlock fished with bloody fingers in the cushions for his phone. He pulled it free. Four missed calls from Mummy and a text from Mycroft. Sherlock's vision blurred and his fingers slipped over the keys. At times like this, he wished he had someone around to type out his texts.

***

On the day the information about the end of the world that Jim Moriarty had released onto the internet was finally picked up by the major news networks, Jim sat on the rooftop deck of his London home across from his favorite lackey and enjoyed a glass of hideously expensive red wine. It was cold and it rained, the sort of misty rain that clung to the skin and the tips of the hair like tiny soap bubbles. Two hours ago, the government had declared martial law. Now, as the sun set, the army marched the streets and fires burned. It was so appallingly beautiful that hot tears spilled over Jim's cheeks. All the fat-skinny people; all the tall-short people, and all the nobody people, for this shining moment they were all rendered fascinating in their desperation. Their violence. Their aborted dreams.

On the other side of the table, Col. Sebastian Moran poured the remainder of his beer into his glass. Moran's features were an unlikely mix of fine and coarse: high forehead, delicate blond brows, deep set blue eyes, full lips, weathered skin, thick wrists and thin, pianist fingers. His time in the army had afforded him a perfectly erect posture that he worked diligently to eschew, in the same manner he grew his hair just beyond the military buzz while periodically pushing an annoyed palm over his forehead as though trying to wipe away the excess. Moran did this, and said, “So it's all going to plan then boss.”

“Plans, Seb. It's always plans.” Jim's life was a constellation of plans, silken layers of criss-cross webs that fuzed and broke in the gentle breezes of passing time. But Seb couldn't truly appreciate the intricacies. His mind was too small. Almost everyone's was. Jim raised his glass. “To pawns in play.”

“To pawns.” Seb smiled and they clinked glasses.

The game was set. And now, with all distractions removed, Jim could determine if Sherlock Holmes was a worthy enough adversary to bring to Jim's side. Jim sipped his wine. The taste was bitter and so very, very good.

 

\---

**Lyrics from "Five Years," by David Bowie, Track 1 of the EPIC Ziggy Stardust Soundtrack**

_Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing_  
_News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in_  
_News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying_  
_Cried so much his face was wet, then I knew he was not lying_  
_I heard telephones, opera house, favorite melodies_  
_I saw boys, toys electric irons and T.V.'s_  
_My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare_  
_I had to cram so many things to store everything in there_  
_And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people_  
_And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people_  
_I never thought I'd need so many people_

 _A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children_  
_If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them_  
_A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac_  
_A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer_  
_Threw up at the sight of that_  
_I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlor, drinking milk shakes cold and long_  
_Smiling and waving and looking so fine, don't think_  
_You knew you were in this song_  
_And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor_  
_And I thought of Ma and I wanted to get back there_  
_Your face, your race, the way that you talk_  
_I kiss you, you're beautiful, I want you to walk_

 _We've got five years, stuck on my eyes_  
_Five years, what a surprise_  
_We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot_  
_Five years, that's all we've got_

 _We've got five years, what a surprise_  
_Five years, stuck on my eyes_  
_We've got five years my brain hurts a lot_  
_Five years, that's all we've got_

 _We've got five years, stuck on my eyes_  
_Five years, what a surprise_  
_We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot_  
_Five years, that's all we've got_

 _We've got five years, what a surprise_  
_Five years, stuck on my eyes_  
_We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot_  
_Five years, that's all we've got_

 _Five years_  
_Five years_  
_Five years_  
_Five years_

 


	2. Soul Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some important meetings. This chapter is neither Brit-picked nor BETAed. Apologies.

When John Watson stepped into the Royal London A&E, it was like he'd stepped back in time. His hands steadied and for the first time in months he felt as though he had purpose. Patients were sitting, standing, leaning against the walls as nurses ran between them with clipboards taking information. They'd set up a triage table between the entrance and the normal reception area, with a queue running almost to the door. A middle aged woman in a nurse’s uniform stood behind desk. John took his place at the back of the queue behind a man with a blood running from a contusion on his left temple. He wore a business suit, no tie, and held a saturated wad of paper towels to the wound.

“Keep the pressure on,” John said. He swung his duffle to the floor, unzipped it and felt around for his penlight. “Are you feeling nauseated. Any vomiting? Blurred vision? Memory loss?”

“Are you a doctor? You don't look like a doctor in that jumper.”

John shined the penlight over his eyes. “Your pupils are even and they retract to light, so that's good. How did you hit your head?”

“Brick. Don't even remember it hitting me. Some kids were looting a cafe. Bleeding chavs. Five years left to live and my wife's fucking her yoga teacher. Should've just let them finish me.”

Well, he was coherent at least. “What's your name?”

“William Beverly.”

“Did you lose consciousness Mr. Beverly?”

“A bit. Am I going to be alright?”

“They'll want to do a CT.”

“Does it even matter? We're all going to die in five years anyway?”

Fair question, and one John had a feeling he'd be answering for the rest of his life.

The automatic doors behind Beverly opened and two men ran in, hauling a third, fireman style, between them. The third man was tall enough that his feet drug against the floor as the others ran. He was thin, and his skin, sweaty and pale, had a bluish undertone that spoke to cyanosis. His head lolled onto the shoulder of the man to his left, a middle aged ginger who wore his waistcoat and tie like a second skin.

The other man pulled a badge out of his jacket and said, “This man needs immediate medical attention. He's overdosed.”

John ran to the patient's side. His lips were moving, as though he was swallowing words at a rapid pace, and tremors ran through his arms and legs. John felt his pulse. “Heart rate is (FAST) and he's showing signs of hyperthermia. You'll want to lay him down and open his shirt. Nurse!” John shook the man's shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, can you hear me?”

The DI said, “He's been in and out.”

“What did he take? Do you know?”

The man in the suit said, “Cocaine is usually my brother's drug of choice.”

“Archenemy,” the patient said. He spoke rapidly, his words tumbling into each other so it was difficult to discern one from the next. “Hospital Mycroft, really? So tedious.”

“Mycroft? That's good,” John said. “Can you tell me your name sir?”

“Boring. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“He's pretty incoherent,” John said. “We''re going to need to get him cooled down and start him on a benzodiazapine to slow his heart rate. Has he had any seizures?”

“I think one in the taxi,” the DI said. “He's been in and out since.”

A dark brown man in bright blue surgical scrubs ran towards them. “Excuse me, they said there was an overdose.”

“Yes,” John said. “The patient is hyperthermic with a severely increased heart rate. Probable cocaine overdose. We're going to need to cool him down and start him on bendiazepine's stat.”

“Who are you? Can I see some identification? Are you a doctor?”

“Obviously,” the patient said. “Idiot.”

It was wrong to respond to the acerbic wit of a cocaine addict, John reminded himself, schooling his face to neutrality as he extended his hand to the nurse. “Captain John Watson. RAMF. I was invalidated home. Considering the situation though, this seemed like the best place for me.”

“Umm...good. Yes. I mean, you're going to have to speak with Dr. Sawyer. She's in charge of the...ummm...trained volunteers.”

“That's wonderful.” John tried very, very hard to keep his tone polite. “How about we focus on saving this man's life first,” he said. “And then we can sort out my paperwork, okay?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the patient asked again.

“Afghanistan,” John said, then his breath caught a moment as he realized what the other man had said. “That's what you were meant! How did you know?”

“Haircut. Posture. Tan lines stop at the forearms. And your finger callouses also indicate you play guitar, obvious.”

“Hardly. It's brilliant.”

“Really?” The man sounded genuinely surprised. “That's not what people usually say.”

“Then you shouldn't listen to them,” John said. God, what was he doing, chatting with an overdosed junkie patient on the floor of A&E, like they were two strangers meeting in a cafe. “And you should stop the drugs. You're too smart to be doing this to yourself.”

“Thank you, _Doctor_ Watson. Now that I've met you, I'm a changed man.”

“I just like you, that's all.”

“No you don't,” the man said. “You're intrigued, and that's far more interesting.” The man closed his eyes. “The name's Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And I'll see you at your next break. In one of the private rooms. Mycroft's guilt will assure that small convenience.”

Brilliant yes, and funny, but nevertheless, a complete prat. Not a surprise, considering. John said, “I'll try my best.”

“You'll see me,” Sherlock said. “You have to help me save the world.”

Brilliant, and completely insane.

***

On Thursdays, Mrs. Amelia Hudson visited graveyards. Not to see her husband. They'd cremated the bastard in Florida and as her last act of wifely duty, she'd told them to bin the ashes. But in some way her visits were some form of memorial, to his victims maybe or at least to the illusion of the man she'd lost. She would walk the rows between gravestones, and when she found one that seemed especially unkempt or lonely, she would squat beside it, pulling weeds and leaves from it as necessary, and then have breakfast, usually coffee and a muffin from a nearby cafe. Today she'd been forced to bag some pastries and a thermos of tea she'd made at home.

Though the soldiers had managed to put the streets in some form of order overnight, most stores were closed. Amelia had considered staying in for the day. Hardly seemed a point to tending a forgotten grave when the world was as likely as not to be pummeled to ash before the end of the decade. But the morning had dawned fair, and poor Sherlock had disappeared while Amelia had been talking her sister through how to check the messages on her mobile phone, which left the building a bit too large and lonely to bear. Better to be useful. She'd smiled to the soldiers at the entrance to the Tube, letting her voice fall and her eyes unfocus a bit as she talked about visiting the cemetery, and they'd let her pass with a wave and urgent reminder to back before the evening curfew.

Now the cemetery was almost empty. A young man, maybe a decade older than Sherlock, curled up beside a headstone, weeping. Amelia avoided him, and the woman with her preteen daughter under the tree. The air was a bit brisk, and the grass saturated from last night's rain. It squished under her flats as she walked. None of the graves called to her today. Or perhaps they all did, from the polished marble monuments standing tall to the smallest, saddest stone hidden in overgrown grass. Eventually, the twinging in her hip became too much to ignore, and she spread small, flowered blanket and sat down in front an unassuming stone, neither overgrown nor well kept.

It read:

A. Zanetta

A Brave Son

who gave his life

Only that. The aborted epitaph hovered between the headstone and her eyes, but she couldn't penetrate its meaning. Had...Anthony? Arthur? Alfred? Had he been a soldier? A policeman? What had he given his life for? Some higher purpose, Amelia assumed, but didn't they all who gave their lives rather than have them taken?

It was either that or drift into obscurity. Or perhaps all of the above.

Amelia sipped at her tea for a while as last night's rain seeped through her blanket and dampened the seat of her trousers. When had her life become a series of habits? Graves and food shopping on Thursdays, Bridge club on Fridays, laundry on Mondays, daily cooking and cleaning, the morning stories, the evening shows, and her sister the third Sunday of the month. Sherlock's recent arrival was the only thing that had bought any variety at all.

A young, mixed race woman with curly brown hair trudged in Amelia's general direction. A police baton swung from the belt at her left side. She held a tan leather purse firmly under her right shoulder, and a bag of sweets in her left hand. She would have been pretty if not for the grey cast to her skin, the tight set of her full lips, and a bruise darkening her right cheek.

As the cop approached, her gaze rested on Amelia, and her brow furrowed. “Excuse me, ma'am. Are you a relative?”

Of all the misfortune, Amelia had never had this happen before. “I'm so sorry, love,” Amelia blurted out, closing her thermos and pushing it back into her shopping bag. “I meant no harm. I'll give you two time to yourselves.”

“No, no! I mean, I'm sorry. He was...we trained together. Got a knife in him on a domestic, God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be bringing all this back up,” the woman said. “It's just I was up all night running support for the army with the riot, and I'm no good at holding my tongue anyway. But you have as much right to be here as I do.”

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” Amelia spun the lid closed on her thermos and stood. Pain spiked through her hip and she closed her eyes, breathing through her teeth.

“Let me help you, ma'am,” the woman said, and then dropped to her knees to fold the blanket.

“Don't,” Amelia said, but it was too late.

In the way of youth, the other woman had gathered up the blanket and made quick work of folding it down the middle once and again. When she was finished, she tucked it under her arm and said, “Did you want me to help you put this in your bag, ma'am.”

“Amelia.”

“What?”

“Don't ma'am me. It makes me feel old. My name is Amelia, like that pretty young thing who traveled with the Doctor.”

For a moment, the cop just stared, then her lips twitched and she laughed. Amelia joined her, and soon they were leaning against each other, sharing a mirth that was part hysteria. As the other woman raised her sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes, Amelia pulled a hankerchief from her purse. “Use this,” she said.

“God, I needed that,” the woman said, “Sally. My name's Sally.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you.” Amelia held out an arm for her blanket. “I'd best be doing my shopping, what with the lootings and the curfew.”

“Listen, how are you getting back? Did you need a ride? I've got an official vehicle, so it's no problem getting through the checkpoints.”

“I'm fine, love. The Tube is quite safe. All those cute young men and ladies in uniform just set to help one out. Besides, you look exhausted, and a wee bit heartbroken, if you don't mind me saying.” Amelia inclined her head towards the gravestone. “You loved him, didn't you?”

“Yes...I thought...not enough.” Sally took a deep breath, her eyes shut. “I'm no good with...sometimes I'm sure there's a stone where my heart should be. It's warm and it beats, but it's a stone all the same.”

Amelia placed a gentle palm just above Sally's shoulder. The fabric was stiff and a bit damp still from last night's rain. “Oh, love,” Amelia said. “Good or bad has nothing to do with it. Love is careless in its choosing. It descends on those defenseless, making idiots of us. Believe me, I know.” Amelia had loved her husband and destroyed him all the same. “But you should get some rest, child. Bet you'll be busy tonight. Helping out and such.”

“Maybe,” Sally shrugged. “Yes. One out of four of us quit, you know, after the annoncement.” Her shoulders were tight, her face stiff. She shoved her hands into her pockets, the blanket slipping down her arm as she said, “They were supposed to be good cops.”

“If there's a stone in your chest,” Amelia said. “It's a hot one. And it loves. Trust an old lady.”

“Stone love,” Sally's lips quirked. She took one hand out of her pocket and passed the blanket over. “I like that.”

Amelia bundled the blanket into her bag. “Well, I'll be off. It was lovely to meet you, Sally.”

“Wait.” Sally opened her thin purse and pulled out a business card. “Sally Donovan, with New Scotland Yard. If you need anything, or have any problem, that's my personal extension. At least for as long as the phones work.”

“Thank you.” Amelia put the card into her purse. She'd pass it along to Sherlock. The boy could use another contact in the Yard, considering his passion for detective work.

In the shops, the intercom repeated the joyous news of the government's plan. Like something out of a movie, five years back they had fired nukes towards the asteroid, and those would somehow divert its path. Arms laden with all the makings of a week's worth of biscuits, Amelia stepped onto the pavement. Patches of sky peeked around the buildings, clear and shockingly blue in the bright sun. In front of the food shop, sat a man bundled in a thick green coat. The coat was a touch too expensive for an itinerant. A scarf covered his face, and the hood was pulled down so only his nose and the glint of his eyes were visible. He sat cross-legged on the ground, a guitar balanced on his lap. The tips of his fingers peeked out through three-quarter gloves. He picked idly at his instrument. Amelia took a five pound note from her pocket and placed it in his open guitar case. The man nodded.

His voice unfurled, a beautiful tenor. The notes, not quite a melody, not quite words, followed her down the pavement and into the Tube. “Lie. Lie. Lie, la, lie, lie, lie...”

 

\---

Lyrics from "Soul Love" by David Bowie, Track 2 of the EPIC Ziggy Stardust Album:

_Stone love - she kneels before the grave_   
_A brave son - who gave his life_   
_To save the slogans_   
_That hovers between the headstone and her eyes_   
_For they penetrate her grieving_

_New love a boy and girl are talking_   
_New words that only they can share in_   
_New words a love so strong it tears their hearts_

_To sleep through the fleeting hours of morning_

_Love is careless in its choosing_   
_Sweeping over cross a baby_   
_Love descends on those defenseless_   
_Idiot love will spark the fusion_   
_Inspirations have I none_   
_Just to touch the flaming dove_   
_All I have is my love of love_   
_And love is not loving_

_Soul love - the priest that tastes the word and_   
_Told of love - and how my God on high is_   
_All love - though reaching up my loneliness_   
_Evolves by the blindness that surrounds him_

_Love is careless in its choosing_   
_Sweeping over cross a baby_   
_Love descends on those defenseless_   
_Idiot love will spark the fusion_   
_Inspirations have I none_   
_Just to touch the flaming dove_   
_All I have is my love of love_   
_And love is not loving_

[This wraps up with a la la la la which sounds like lie lie lie lie lie hence the chapter ending.]


	3. Moonage Daydream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziggy played guitar.

I met Sherlock in the A&E at the Royal London just after I'd postponed my suicide. I'd just gotten shot and discharged from the army, which I won't bother to talk about except that between the bullet, the fever, and the PTSD, I was ruined as a surgeon. With the coming of Sherlock Holmes began the part of my life you could call ‘the Spider Band'.

That was Sherlock's band, the Spiders from Mars. Sherlock didn’t believe the Earth went around the sun, or more accurately, he didn’t care, but he called his band The Spiders from Mars. Doesn’t even make any sense, when you think about it. Which we didn’t.

My job was to play guitar and call Sherlock brilliant when the situation called for it, which was also often. He was brilliant. He cured my psychosomatic limp with just one rooftop chase. He also used cocaine when he thought I wasn't looking, which was often.

And Sherlock was completely barking mad, but who am I to criticize? The world was ending. That was the key thing to remember. It's what saved my life.

Sherlock's landlady let us use her basement flat as rehearsal space, 221C Baker Street, probably she had trouble renting it due to the lack of heating. Sherlock lived on the second floor, which he heated lavishly. Sherlock's band consisted of me and a mousy pathologist named Molly that he insisted on calling Gilly. She played bass, and damned well too. We couldn't keep a drummer. We went through five in the two months after Sherlock was discharged from the hospital. Apparently his masterpiece—'response' John, we're responding to a message, don't you listen to me at all—required a virtuoso with three arms, or as Sherlock put it, a competent drummer. The drummer also had to be willing to put up with Sherlock and periodic kidnappings. Sarah had lasted the longest, but after the second time she was almost murdered, well, it can be a bit much.

We'd been auditioning new drummers for about five hours—which is to say Sherlock would glance at a candidate as he or she walked in the door, tell their life story and then insist they leave before even drumming a beat, after which he paced, pulled at his hair and muttered disdainful comments in thirty-year-old stoner slang that should have sounded ridiculous in his posh accent but somehow didn't.

“I know this is your band and your vision, but...” Molly ventured, as Sherlock muttered something about ray-guns. She was sitting on a three legged stool that Mrs. Hudson had brought down from the attic. Like all of us, she had her winter wear on, a hot pink turtleneck and baby pink knitted jumper; when she wasn't playing, she kept her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “Maybe we should let the next one try playing something?”

“Thinking, thinking, thinking!” Sherlock spun in a whirl of expensive coat. “Keep your mouth shut. You're squawking like a pink monkey bird.”

Molly stared at her feet. “I mean--”

Bad enough he insulted my intelligence constantly and ordered me to use my personal mobile to send messages to serial killers -- I'd volunteered for Afghanistan and besides Sherlock's drama had given me a reenlistment on life -- but Molly, she didn't deserve the abuse, and I'd hit my limit truth be told. “Sit down,” I ordered, in my best command voice.

“Don't freak out, man--”

“Now!”

Sherlock dropped like a stone. Good to know I still had it. I stood over him, enjoying the height differential for a change, and stated in no uncertain terms that no matter what applicant walked through this door next, Sherlock would let them drum through an entire song before deciding they were unfit for theband, “Otherwise I will leave and then who will type out your texts, wash your clothes and make your tea?”

“You two—well--” Molly sputtered. “I mean, I hadn't realized but of course. It's all fine.”

“Of course it's fine,” Sherlock drew his knees to his chest and flashed Molly a glare that would melt lead. “John prefers to do laundry here than at his bedsit as Mrs. Hudson has an industrial washer, though he really ought to take the second bedroom. It would help with the rent, and besides it's safer.”

“Safer?” I asked. “How? You keep fingers in your refrigerator.”

“Oh! So you're not—“ Molly pulled her bass into her lap. “Forget it.”

“They're labeled,” Sherlock said, the hint of a whine in his voice. “And you can't quit. You'll just kill yourself and then we'll need to find a competent guitarist in addition to a competent drummer. Unacceptable.”

Molly gasped. “Sherlock! That was—you can't just say things like that, not to regular people.”

“John’s not regular people.”

The last was patently true, and I was a beat too long wondering why my guts had decided this was a compliment instead of an insult when there was a knock at the door.

“Yoo-hoo! Gentlemen and Miss Molly, you have another visitor.” The door opened and Mrs. Hudson bustled in. “Try not to send this one away in tears. I'm running a bit low on tissues and biscuits, not your manager, mind.”

“One song,” I hissed, and gestured for Sherlock to stand. “Or I will leave. Let's not delude ourselves into thinking we're doing anything more here than prolonging the inevitable.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and stood.

In the doorway was Anderson. I recognized him from the suicide case where I shot that truly atrocious cabbie two days after they lifted martial law. Anderson was wearing black jeans with a Jurassic Park t-shirt, and he had muscles under it, compact but firm, which surprised me almost as much as the easy grin that turned to ice as he stared in disbelief at Sherlock. “You! And your assistant?”

“Colleague.”

“Whatever,” Anderson stared like someone had repeatedly beat the back of his head with a metal pipe. “You're kidding? Molls, you're in the band too? I mean, you guys are Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars?”

Sherlock glanced at me. “John, you can't mean him. I'm busting my brains for the words--”

“Anderson gets one song.” And yes, I agree, watching Sherlock verbally eviscerate Anderson and then throw him out on his ear would have been more satisfying. I didn't want Anderson in the band. Anderson casually bitched at Sherlock and dismissed me altogether. And he cheated on his wife. I didn't like him at all, but consistency is the key to discipline. Life lessons of the army, like clean your gun after every firefight.

Anderson, the shit, said, “That's alright. I'm not sure I could handle hanging out with you guys in my free time. No offense, Molls.”

“It's fine.”

“You see, John. He doesn't want to be in the band. And thank whatever imagined deity you choose to praise because if his drumming is as lousy as his pathology work, he’ll just send our work's down the drain.”

“I'm a damned good drummer, you arrogant shit.”

“Don't lean on me babe,” Sherlock said. “You can't afford the ticket.”

“With a stage name like Ziggy Stardust, you really have no room to talk,” Anderson said.

“I'm not Ziggy,” Sherlock waved a careless hand towards me. “John is.”

This was the first I'd heard of it. “The hell I am!”

“I told you John Watson is far too dull a name for the stage. You need something far-out. Freak out. Besides, you play guitar.”

There was no point in asking if Sherlock was insane. It was like asking if skies were blue or if dogs liked pissing on poles. Best to state your position clearly and not deviate. “There's absolutely no way I'm telling anyone my name is Ziggy Stardust.”

“Oh, but you must.” And Sherlock was singing. At first it was nonsense. Introductory sounds: ohs and ahs. His voice, generally schooled to a posh disdain took on a richness, an inescapable beauty, and for a moment, I thought maybe we could make a success of this. Whatever it was. “Ziggy played guitar, jamming good with Weird and Gilly, and the Spiders from Mars. He played it left hand--” and then he stopped. “Don't you see, John?” His eyes were that point between gray and blue that promised danger. “Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe. In out. There really is no other way.”

“Well, that was enlightening,” Anderson cut in. He narrowed his eyes and added with an expression somewhere between a grin and grimace. “John's Ziggy, and I'm an alligator, a mama-papa coming for you.”

I blinked, and Sherlock had Anderson backed against the door, “What did you say?”

“Don't freak out man!” Anderson shouted. “I was just making shit up. You're really crazy, ray-gun to the head crazy, you know. Of course you know.”

Sherlock grabbed Anderson's hands and stared. “You play the drums.”

“No, I just get a kick out of crashing auditions.”

“The score is on the stand.” Sherlock dropped Anderson's hands. “Review it.”

“Go to hell.”

“Highly likely we all will if we can’t get this right. Mycroft's made up nukes certainly aren't going to help us.”

“Mycroft? That's not John too, is it?”

“It's utterly disgusting that you would even consider the two in any way comparable.”

“Right, whatever.”

“Please, Anderson,” I said, before Sherlock could say something to turn the other man from offended to homicidal—Sherlock had a true talent for that, “One song. We really need a drummer, and you're used to Sherlock.”

“Fine.” Anderson walked to the drum stand. “I'll play, but I'm not joining your group.” He took a palm sized stuffed dinosaur from his pocket and placed it on the music stand next to the sheet music. Then he flipped through it, nodding at points, licking his index finger before turning the pages. When he was finished he took a pair of drumsticks from the leather briefcase at his feet and said. “Okay.”

Sherlock raised the violin to his chin and struck the first note. Molly and I slipped into our parts with minimal effort, we'd certainly practiced enough. Anderson came in exactly on point with the cymbals, and then we were flying. Anderson's sticks whipped over the drums, and Sherlock's bow tore screaming beauty over his violin, and it was all I could do to hold it all together, weave it through the grounding strum of Molly's bass. I closed my eyes to better bring the music through my strings. It was the best part of skimming death. Halfway through, Anderson sang, well, it was somewhere between a scream and a song, musical screaming, “Don't fake it baby!” and it was jarring yes, but it was good, very good, fiendishly good, and I played my callouses until they hurt, I don't know how long. I don't think any of us did. When the last note died, I was sweaty and my eyes were pounding.

Anderson was the first to speak. “That was...”

“Amazing. Brilliant!” I exclaimed. It was my job.

“You must understand this is all in the service of the work,” Sherlock said. “We're doing this to save the world.” And then Sherlock explained it, the Northern lights, the message, all of it patently ridiculous, but Anderson kept his mouth shut for the whole of it without interrupting, laughing or running away, and that made me hate him a bit less. Sherlock finished with, “So you see, as much as it galls the both of us, you really are...the best candidate for the position, and so,” Sherlock glanced at me and I gave him an encouraging smile, “it would be good, very good, if you could play with us. On a trial basis.”

“Great! Does that mean I can be Ziggy Stardust?”

“Absolutely,” I said, at the same time Sherlock shouted, “No!”

Before Anderson could change his mind and subject us to another two weeks of trying to find a drummer, I leaned the guitar against the crate I'd been sitting on and walked over to him, offering my hand. “Welcome to the band. If you want to freak out for a bit, go right ahead. We all do, sometimes.”

Somewhere along the line, I ended up taking the second room in Sherlock's flat. I told myself it was easier, aside from the toxic experiments, lack of milk and the fact that Sherlock was a lazy prat with an ego the size of the asteroid that was aiming to kill us all. But he never did cocaine in the flat, at least not that I'd catch him. It wasn't easy, but it was perfect, if you looked at things through a kaleidoscope. There were criminals, concerts, fistfights and visions; we were living in a daydream, a moonage daydream, and if Sherlock was going to save the world, well, somewhere along the line I decided I'd save him, and keep saving him, until the end.

 

\--

Lyrics from "Moonage Daydream" by David Bowie, Track 3 of the EPIC Ziggy Stardust soundtrack:

_I'm an alligator, I'm a mama-papa coming for you_  
_I'm the space invader, I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you_  
_Keep your mouth shut, you're squawking like a pink monkey bird_  
_And I'm busting up my brains for the words_

_Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe_  
_Put your ray gun to my head_  
_Press your space face close to mine, love_  
_Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah_

_Don't fake it baby, lay the real thing on me_  
_The church of man, love, is such a holy place to be_  
_Make me baby, make me know you really care_  
_Make me jump into the air_

_Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe_  
_Put your ray gun to my head_  
_Press your space face close to mine, love_  
_Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah_

_Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe_  
_Put your ray gun to my head_  
_Press your space face close to mine, love_  
_Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah_

_Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe_  
_Put your ray gun to my head_  
_Press your space face close to mine, love_  
_Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah_

_Freak out, far out, in out_


End file.
